Stolen Melody
by Winged Quill
Summary: A serial killer is on the rise, selected talented victims and destroying those talents. He then watches in the wings as they take their own life. Sherlock must, obviously, investigate a killer with such an interesting method. But then he finds himself in over his head, and our killer must ask himself a question. How best to destroy a violinist?


Warnings for this story: Mentions of suicide, torture, and mutilation. Cheery start.

* * *

When Lestrade dumped a large case file in front of them, and Sherlock set down his violin and turned to him with a raised eyebrow, John knew that he would not be getting an appropriate level of sleep tonight. No doubt they would spend the entire day hunting after an insane serial killer, only to go on a daring nighttime chase, possibly get kidnapped, and he would accidentally fall asleep at work the next day.

Honestly, it was a wonder that Sarah hadn't fired him yet.

"Is it interesting?" Sherlock asked, getting to his feet and striding purposefully over to Lestrade, seemingly uncaring of the fact that he was still in his dressing gown.

"I would say so," Lestrade replied, holding out the manilla folder. Sherlock took it and flicked through it, fingers turning each piece of paper over in careful consideration. A look of unabashed glee came over his face and he tucked the folder under his arm.

"We'll take it," he said. John sighed, but did not object to the fact that Sherlock had decided to include him in this endeavor. His protests would merely result in Sherlock spending an hour weighing the benefits of helping him with the case (of which there were many) versus those of getting a good night's sleep (of which there were none.)

"All the crime scenes have been cleared," Lestrade announced, causing an irritated scoff to emit from Sherlock's throat. "Sorry. Was debating whether or not to call you, and Anderson jumped the gun."

"Of course he did," said Sherlock with a roll of the eyes. "I'll look over the photographs. Call me if there's another death."

Lestrade recognized this dismissal for what it was, and left with a nod to both John and Sherlock, the latter of which was already pouring through the pictures.

"What makes this one so interesting?" John asked, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder to look at the files. Sherlock had turned down the last five clients who had come to him, and one case that DI Dimmock had asked for his help with, declaring them all simplistic and dull. Followed by some cutting words about the intelligence of said clients, before slamming the door in their faces.

"He's not just killing them." Sherlock handed a photograph to John. It was a single, spray-painted word on a hardwood floor. _Photographer._

"How does this tie in?"

"It was found near the body of Ms. Millstone, a twenty-year old art student majoring in photography. According to this, all of her professors said she had a lot of promise, and that her work was exquisite. Best in her class. She was going places."

"And?"

"She had taken a full bottle of cyanide. And do you want to know why?"

"Why?" said John, humoring Sherlock.

"Because our killer had poured bleach in her eyes and left her with a bottle. There was also an earpiece found dangling from her ear," continued Sherlock, eyes skimming the paper. "Apparently her killer goaded her on from afar."

"That's just sick," John growled, bile rising in his throat. He forced it down, anger still simmering in his stomach, before turning back to hear the rest of Sherlock's explanation.

"Two more victims were murdered with a similar method. A runner, paralyzed from the waist down and left with a handgun. And a singer, tongue sliced off and left with a razor blade. Both had their talents scrawled next to their bodies in spray paint. The singer was found with a earpiece in her ear. The runner had an broken earpiece mixed in with pieces of his skull."

"Any connection between the victims?" Sherlock shook his head and spread out all of the papers across the table.

"None that Lestrade could find."

"Should I put on the tea then?" John asked, getting to his feet as Sherlock's eyes swept over the papers, darting around bit by bit as he looked for a link.

"Give me until the kettle boils. I'll have figured something out by then."

John sighed and set the kettle down on the stove with a clank, before stepping out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his room, looking for the book he had idly laid aside before. As he picked it up and turned to leave his room, he heard the sound of a slamming door from downstairs.

"Sherlock?" he called. He rushed out onto the landing when no answer was forthcoming. "Sherlock, are you there?"

He hurried into the living room and sighed in exasperation when he saw Sherlock's papers hastily swept aside, some having fluttered to the ground. He must have had an epiphany, and rushed out without a single thought of his irate flatmate.

John pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent off a text.

_Where are you?_

It pinged with response not a minute later, and John rolled his eyes in exasperation at the expected reply.

_Idea. Be back in time for dinner._

_-SH_

An hour later, John heated up a can of soup, the only food he could find that hadn't been contaminated by Sherlock's experiments.

Two hours later the soup had gone cold, John had swallowed down a bowl, and a nervous wriggling was starting up in his stomach.

_Sherlock? You okay?_

_Sherlock?_

_Pick up your phone._

_I mean it. I will throw all your feet into the trash._

John eventually gave up texting and pressed the call button next to Sherlock's name, bringing his phone up to his ear with nervous trepidation. Ring...ring...ring. Click.

_This is Sherlock Holmes. Leave a message if–_

John scowled and jabbed at the end button, resolving to give Sherlock another hour before he called Lestrade. He spent that time nervously pacing and prowling around the flat, making himself a cup of tea, not drinking it, and dialing Lestrade after only half an hour had passed.

"Hello?"

"Greg, it's John. I think something bad's happened to Sherlock."

"What do you mean?" His voice increased in urgency, knowing that _something bad _could mean anything with the resident pain-in-his-arse. "Is he with you?"

"No, he went chasing after that killer you set him on." John ran his fingers through his hair, shifting from foot to foot as he spoke as fast as he could, trying to convey as much information possible in the shortest amount of time. "He said he'd be back in an hour, and it's going on four."

"Shit. Did you call him?"

"Of course I called him; that's the first thing I did," John snapped back. "Is there anything you can do?"

There was an inhalation as though Greg was about to reply, before a muffled thud came over the phone. A door opening, probably.

"Give me one second, John." There was a muted, but heated debate from Greg's end, culminating in a loud slamming noise, before Greg picked the up the phone again. His voice was considerably shakier when he spoke.

"68 Northbur Terrace. Some kids called in. I think it might be him."

"Got it," John replied, dread coiling in his stomach. Whatever it was that put the shake in Greg's voice, it was _bad. _Very bad. But every second spent asking for details was one second less that could be occupied with getting to Sherlock. "On my way."

The cab ride was spent in nervous anticipation. John continually asked the cabbie if he could go any faster, before clawing his way out of his seatbelt and throwing a wad of cash at the poor driver when he finally reached his destination. 68 Northbur Terrace was a creaking dilapidated house that looked on the verge of falling over.

Several squad cars were already parked outside. There was no sign of an ambulance.

John bolted up the stairs and flung open the door, shoving past several startled officers and calling Lestrade's name frantically as he ran through the hallways.

"In here!"

John ducked through the door and stopped dead.

Crouched against the wall, his back being rubbed by Lestrade, gazing off into space and _sobbing_–huge, broken sobs that tore at John's heart–was Sherlock. There were ligature marks around his neck. A torn bit of rope lay on the ground, accompanied by a stool and a thrown-aside earpiece.

Blood was splattered across the floor, and in cheery, yellow spray-paint there was a single word. _VIOLINIST._

And scattered across the floor were...were...

John felt as though he was going to throw up. A hand clamped over his mouth, he forced his legs to unfreeze and his body to propel itself forward, coming to a halt before Sherlock and crouching down. He took his friend's head gently in his hands, searching his eyes for a spark of life. He exhaled in relief when Sherlock focused on him, the terror that the bastard had taken his sight gone.

But of course. Because taking more than one would be cheating. It was methodical and carefully planned, taking the one thing that would destroy the victims the most.

For some it was their voice. Others, their sight. Still others, their legs.

But for Sherlock, the mad and brilliant scientist, the clever and calculating detective, the haunting and beautiful violinist, it was his hands.

The once-elegant appendages now hung uselessly at the end of Sherlock's arms, covered in blood and mangled beyond recognition, the fingers torn off and scattered around the room. And really, the killer was brilliant, because how could Sherlock ever come back from this?

If he lost his eyes, he could rely on scent, and sound, and touch. If his legs were taken, he could eventually figure out prosthetics, or even a wheelchair. If it was his voice, sign language, writing. But his hands...there was no second sense he could turn to, no prosthetic that would allow him to move his missing fingers, no language that could give back the stolen notes of the violin.

This was Sherlock's personal hell.

"I'm sorry," whispered John, holding back tears for his friend's sake as he gathered him into a hug, Lestrade drawing back to stand guard over them. "I am so, so sorry."

Later, there was pain.

Later, there were the hospitals, and the tears and screams, and Sherlock begging, actually _begging _the doctors, to give him back his hands. Later, there were furious accusations between brothers, and slammed doors, and broken hearts. Later, there was a Detective Inspector sitting alone in a bar and wishing that he could go back in time and never give Sherlock that case. Later, there John blaming himself for letting Sherlock go gallivanting off into the night.

Later, there were shards of glass on the kitchen floor and splinters of wood in the living room, Sherlock shivering in the remnants of those cruel, cruel reminders of his loss, and John not knowing what to do or say. Later, John would collect the destroyed remains of a violin and shove it in a box to the back of his closet.

Later, there would be wishes and prayers, and the hope that the world had just become a horrible nightmare. Later, Sherlock would scream and rage at the heavens, and plead with them to let him wake up.

Later, Sherlock would wish that he had done as the voice in his ear said, and kicked aside the stool. Later, John would hate himself for wondering if that might not have been for the best.

Later.

But now, John could hold his friend, and thank every deity he knew of that he was alive. And if Sherlock closed his eyes, concentrated on John's warmth, and did his best to block out the pain, he could pretend–just for a moment–that everything was alright.

* * *

I might write those "laters" someday. But for now this is remaining a one shot. This was written for a prompt over on LJ which read "The best way to torture a violinist is to cut off his fingers." It was an old prompt (from 2009 or 2010, I think) but the idea still intrigued me.


End file.
